Page 31 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
His eyes narrow slightly, studying me with renewed interest. "You know, for someone who runs a small-town coffee shop, you have a surprisingly technical vocabulary. Yesterday, you referenced API integration when talking about online ordering systems."
"I read a lot." Heat crawls up my neck.
"Mmm." He doesn't look convinced. "And last week, when my laptop was glitching, you suggested it might be a memory allocation issue rather than a software conflict. Most people wouldn't make that distinction."
I busy myself wiping down the counter, avoiding his gaze. "I picked up some tech knowledge over the years. Hazard of living in the digital age."
"Some knowledge." The skepticism in his voice is clear. "You diagnosed a recursive function error by glancing at my screen. That's not casual tech knowledge. That's computer science expertise."
My chest tightens with familiar anxiety. This is exactly what I've been afraid of—someone connecting the dots between who I am now and who I was before.
"I took some courses in college," I say, finally, the partial truth easier than outright lies. "Before I realized coffee was my true calling."
"Must have been quite the program." He doesn't press further, but his expression tells me he's filed this information away for future reference. "This drink really is remarkable. The cardamom's a brilliant touch."
"I designed it for focus and mental clarity." I allow the subject change, relieved. "The combination of compounds in the spices and chocolate triggers specific cognitive responses."
"You approach flavor like a scientist." His observation hits uncomfortably close to home. "Systematic, precise, with clear intended outcomes." He studies me over the rim of the mug, eyes narrowing slightly. "There's something about you, Lily Brock."
"I get that a lot. Usually followed by requests for free coffee."
His laughter is unexpected, warming the space between us more effectively than any heater. "The way you approach flavor reminds me of coding. Precision, balance, unexpected combinations that somehow work perfectly together."
If he only knew, but if he did, he’d run away from me as fast as he could. My reputation within the tech world is a shambles. The comparison surprises me, along with the fact that it doesn't immediately put me on the defensive.
"I never thought about it that way."
"It's all science in the end." He takes another sip, expression thoughtful. "Whether it's coffee or code. Finding the perfect balance of elements to create something greater than the sum of its parts."
"Spoken like a true tech philosopher."
"Spoken like someone who recognizes craft when he sees it." His gaze holds mine, unexpectedly sincere. "What you do here—it's art. Don't let anyone convince you it's just coffee."
The compliment catches me off guard, settling warm in my chest. Before I can respond, a violent gust of wind rattles the windows, drawing our attention to the worsening storm.
The bell chimes, snow gusting in with a blast of frigid air. Hannah Lewis enters, her auburn hair tucked beneath a knitted cap, arms laden with books.
"Lily! Thank goodness you're still open." She hurries to the counter, depositing her library books with a thud. "I'm making emergency deliveries to the elderly residents before the roads close. Could I get four chai lattes to go? Mrs. Peterson and her bridge club refused to cancel their weekly game despite the weather."
"Coming right up." I move to prepare the drinks, noting how Max automatically shifts to make room for Hannah at the counter.
"You must be the tech wizard everyone's talking about," Hannah says, extending a hand to Max. "Hannah Lewis, town librarian and unofficial gossip clearinghouse. Well, almost. I think Eleanor or Ruth might have me outmatched, but can’t blame a girl for trying."
"Max Lawson." He shakes her hand, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "And what's the gossip saying?"
"Oh, the usual small-town speculation." Hannah waves dismissively. "Secret billionaire? Corporate spy? Heartbrokenrecluse seeking mountain solitude to heal? The theories get wilder by the day."
I nearly drop a chai tea bag at the "corporate spy" mention, but Hannah continues, oblivious to my reaction.
"Personally, I'm betting on the 'burnt-out genius seeking inspiration' theory. We get at least one of those each year, though usually they're novelists, not tech moguls."
"And what makes you think I'm burnt out?" Max asks, seeming genuinely curious.
"The way you stare at the mountains when you think no one's looking." Hannah's assessment is surprisingly insightful. "Like you're trying to absorb some essential truth from them. Classic sign of someone who's lost their north star."
An uncomfortable silence follows her observation. I busy myself with the chai lattes, giving Max space to respond or deflect as he chooses.
"Perhaps you're in the wrong profession, Ms. Lewis," he says finally. "With that kind of perception, you'd make an excellent psychologist."
